"Can you taste words?"
"Možete li da okusite reči?"
It was a question that caught me by surprise. This summer, I was giving a talk at a literary festival, and afterwards, as I was signing books, a teenage girl came with her friend, and this is what she asked me. I told her that some people experience an overlap in their senses so that they could hear colors or see sounds, and many writers were fascinated by this subject, myself included. But she cut me off, a bit impatiently, and said, "Yeah, I know all of that. It's called synesthesia. We learned it at school. But my mom is reading your book, and she says there's lots of food and ingredients and a long dinner scene in it. She gets hungry at every page. So I was thinking, how come you don't get hungry when you write? And I thought maybe, maybe you could taste words. Does it make sense?"
To pitanje me je zateklo nespremnu. Letos sam držala govor na festivalu književnosti, i kasnije, dok sam potpisivala knjige, tinejdžerka mi je prišla sa prijateljicom, a postavila mi je ovo pitanje. Rekla sam joj da neki ljudi doživljavaju preklapanje svojih čula kako bi mogli da čuju boje ili da vide zvukove, i mnogi pisci su fascinirani ovom tematikom, uključujući i mene. No, ona me je presekla, malo nestrpljivo, i rekla: "Da, znam sve to. Naziva se sinestezija. To smo učili u školi. Međutim, moja majka čita vašu knjigu i kaže kako u njoj ima mnogo hrane i sastojaka i da je u njoj opširna scena večere. Ona ogladni na svakoj stranici. Pa sam razmišljala, kako to da vi ne ogladnite dok pišete? I pomislila sam da možda, možda vi možete da okusite reči. Ima li to smisla?"
And, actually, it did make sense, because ever since my childhood, each letter in the alphabet has a different color, and colors bring me flavors. So for instance, the color purple is quite pungent, almost perfumed, and any words that I associate with purple taste the same way, such as "sunset" -- a very spicy word. But I was worried that if I tell all of this to the teenager, it might sound either too abstract or perhaps too weird, and there wasn't enough time anyhow, because people were waiting in the queue, so it suddenly felt like what I was trying to convey was more complicated and detailed than what the circumstances allowed me to say. And I did what I usually do in similar situations: I stammered, I shut down, and I stopped talking. I stopped talking because the truth was complicated, even though I knew, deep within, that one should never, ever remain silent for fear of complexity.
I, zapravo, imalo je smisla jer još od detinjstva za mene svako slovo abecede ima različitu boju, a boje mi bude ukuse. Na primer, ljubičasta boja je prilično opora, skoro naparfemisana, i svaka reč koju povezujem s ljubičastom ima isti ukus, poput "zalaska sunca" - veoma pikantna sintagma. No brinula sam da ako sve ovo kažem tinejdžerki, zvučaće suviše apstraktno ili možda suviše čudno, a i onako nije bilo dovoljno vremena jer su ljudi čekali u redu, pa sam iznenada osetila kako je ono što pokušavam da sročim komplikovanije i detaljnije nego što mi okolnosti omogućavaju da kažem. Uradila sam nešto što obično radim u sličnim situacijama: zamucala sam, zatvorila se i prestala da govorim. Prestala sam da govorim jer je istina bila komplikovana, iako sam znala, duboko u sebi, da niko ne treba da ćuti, ikad, zbog straha od složenosti.
So I want to start my talk today with the answer that I was not able to give on that day. Yes, I can taste words -- sometimes, that is, not always, and happy words have a different flavor than sad words. I like to explore: What does the word "creativity" taste like, or "equality," "love," "revolution?"
Te danas želim da započnem moj govor odgovorom koji tog dana nisam mogla da dam. Da, mogu da okusim reči - to jest ponekad, ne uvek, a vesele reči imaju drugačiji ukus od tužnih. Volim da istražujem: kakav ukus ima reč "kreativnost" ili "jednakost", "ljubav", "revolucija"?
And what about "motherland?" These days, it's particularly this last word that troubles me. It leaves a sweet taste on my tongue, like cinnamon, a bit of rose water and golden apples. But underneath, there's a sharp tang, like nettles and dandelion. The taste of my motherland, Turkey, is a mixture of sweet and bitter.
A šta je sa "domovinom"? Ovih dana me ova reč naročito muči. Ostavlja sladak ukus na mom jeziku, poput cimeta, malo ružine vodice i zlatnih delišes jabuka. Međutim, ispod počiva oštar ukus, poput koprive i maslačka. Ukus moje domovine, Turske, je mešavina slatkog i gorkog.
And the reason why I'm telling you this is because I think there's more and more people all around the world today who have similarly mixed emotions about the lands they come from. We love our native countries, yeah? How can we not? We feel attached to the people, the culture, the land, the food. And yet at the same time, we feel increasingly frustrated by its politics and politicians, sometimes to the point of despair or hurt or anger.
A razlog zašto vam ovo govorim je jer smatram da sve više i više ljudi širom današnjeg sveta ima slična pomešana osećanja o zemljama iz kojih potiču. Volimo naše rodne zemlje, da? Kako da ih ne volimo? Osećamo povezanost s ljudima, kulturom, zemljom, hranom. A ipak, istovremeno, sve više smo frustrirani politikom naše zemlje i političarima, ponekad do tačke očaja ili bola ili besa.
I want to talk about emotions and the need to boost our emotional intelligence. I think it's a pity that mainstream political theory pays very little attention to emotions. Oftentimes, analysts and experts are so busy with data and metrics that they seem to forget those things in life that are difficult to measure and perhaps impossible to cluster under statistical models. But I think this is a mistake, for two main reasons. Firstly, because we are emotional beings. As human beings, I think we all are like that. But secondly, and this is new, we have entered a new stage in world history in which collective sentiments guide and misguide politics more than ever before. And through social media and social networking, these sentiments are further amplified, polarized, and they travel around the world quite fast. Ours is the age of anxiety, anger, distrust, resentment and, I think, lots of fear. But here's the thing: even though there's plenty of research about economic factors, there's relatively few studies about emotional factors.
Želim da govorim o osećanjima i potrebi da pojačamo našu emotivnu inteligenciju. Smatram da je šteta da mejnstrim politička teorija obraća malo pažnje na osećanja. Često, analitičari i stručnjaci su suviše zauzeti podacima i metrikom da se čini kako zaboravljaju one stvari u životu koje je teško meriti i možda nemoguće grupisati unutar statističkih modela. Ali ja to smatram greškom iz dva glavna razloga. Prvo jer smo osećajna bića. Kao ljudska bića, mislim da smo svi takvi. Ali, pod dva, a ovo je novina, ušli smo u novu fazu svetske istorije u kojoj kolektivna osećanja vode i obmanjuju politiku više nego ikad pre. A putem društvenih medija i društvene umreženosti, ova osećanja su dodatno naglašena, polarizovana i putuju svetom prilično brzo. Naše doba je doba anksioznosti, besa, nepoverenja, prezira i, mislim, obilja straha. Ali, evo o čemu se radi: iako imamo obilje istraživanja o ekonomskim faktorima, ima relativno malo istraživanja o emocionalnim faktorima.
Why is it that we underestimate feelings and perceptions? I think it's going to be one of our biggest intellectual challenges, because our political systems are replete with emotions. In country after country, we have seen illiberal politicians exploiting these emotions. And yet within the academia and among the intelligentsia, we are yet to take emotions seriously. I think we should. And just like we should focus on economic inequality worldwide, we need to pay more attention to emotional and cognitive gaps worldwide and how to bridge these gaps, because they do matter.
Zašto potcenjujemo osećanja i opažanja? Mislim da će to da bude jedan od naših najvećih intelektualnih izazova jer su naši politički sistemi nabijeni emocijama. U državi za državom, viđali smo netrpeljive političare kako eksploatišu te emocije. Pa, ipak, među akademicima i među inteligencijom, tek treba da emocije shvatimo ozbiljno. Mislim da bi trebalo. I baš kao što bi trebalo da se fokusiramo na ekonomsku nejednakost širom sveta, moramo više pažnje da obraćamo na emotivne i kognitivne jazove širom sveta i na to kako da premostimo te jazove jer su oni važni.
Years ago, when I was still living in Istanbul, an American scholar working on women writers in the Middle East came to see me. And at some point in our exchange, she said, "I understand why you're a feminist, because, you know, you live in Turkey." And I said to her, "I don't understand why you're not a feminist, because, you know, you live in America."
Godinama unazad, dok sam još živela u Istanbulu, američka akademkinja koja je izučavala ženske pisce na Bliskom istoku je došla da me vidi. A u jednom trenutku našeg razgovora, rekla je: "Razumem zašto si feministkinja jer, znaš, živiš u Turskoj." A ja sam joj rekla: "Ne razumem zašto ti nisi feministkinja jer, znaš, živiš u Americi."
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
(Applause) And she laughed. She took it as a joke, and the moment passed.
(Aplauz) A ona se nasmejala. Shvatila je to kao šalu i trenutak je prošao.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
But the way she had divided the world into two imaginary camps, into two opposite camps -- it bothered me and it stayed with me. According to this imaginary map, some parts of the world were liquid countries. They were like choppy waters not yet settled. Some other parts of the world, namely the West, were solid, safe and stable. So it was the liquid lands that needed feminism and activism and human rights, and those of us who were unfortunate enough to come from such places had to keep struggling for these most essential values. But there was hope. Since history moved forward, even the most unsteady lands would someday catch up. And meanwhile, the citizens of solid lands could take comfort in the progress of history and in the triumph of the liberal order. They could support the struggles of other people elsewhere, but they themselves did not have to struggle for the basics of democracy anymore, because they were beyond that stage.
Ali način na koji je podelila svet u dva zamišljena tabora, u dva suprotstavljena tabora - smetalo mi je i zapamtila sam to. Prema ovoj zamišljenoj mapi, neki delovi sveta su tečne države. One su poput talasastih voda koje se još nisu smirile. Neki drugi delovi sveta, pre svega Zapad, čvrsti su, bezbedni i stabilni. Pa je tečnim zemljama potreban feminizam i aktivizam i ljudska prava, a mi koji nismo imali dovoljno sreće da poteknemo sa sličnih mesta moramo da nastavimo da se borimo za te suštinske vrednosti. Ali tu je bila nada. Kako istorija ide dalje, čak će i najnestalnije zemlje jednog dana da ih sustignu. A u međuvremenu, građani čvrstih zemalja mogu da nađu utehu u istorijskom napretku i u trijumfu liberalnog poretka. Mogu da podržavaju borbe drugih ljudi drugde, ali oni sami ne moraju više da se bore za osnove demokratije jer su prevazišli tu fazu.
I think in the year 2016, this hierarchical geography was shattered to pieces. Our world no longer follows this dualistic pattern in the scholar's mind, if it ever did. Now we know that history does not necessarily move forward. Sometimes it draws circles, even slides backwards, and that generations can make the same mistakes that their great-grandfathers had made. And now we know that there's no such thing as solid countries versus liquid countries. In fact, we are all living in liquid times, just like the late Zygmunt Bauman told us. And Bauman had another definition for our age. He used to say we are all going to be walking on moving sands.
Mislim da je u 2016. godini ovo hijerarhijsko geografsko ustrojstvo razbijeno na delove. Naš svet više ne prati ovaj dualistički obrazac u umovima akademika, ako ikad i jeste. Sad znamo da istorija nužno ne ide napred. Ponekad pravi krugove, čak i klizi unazad, a generacije mogu da ponove iste greške koje su njihove pradede napravile. I sad znamo da ne postoji tako nešto kao što su čvrste države nasuprot tečnim. Zapravo, svi mi živimo u tečnom vremenu, baš kao što nam je pokojni Zigmunt Bauman rekao. A Bauman je imao još jednu definiciju našeg vremena. Imao je običaj da kaže kako ćemo svi da hodamo po pokretnom pesku.
And if that's the case, I think, it should concern us women more than men, because when societies slide backwards into authoritarianism, nationalism or religious fanaticism, women have much more to lose. That is why this needs to be a vital moment, not only for global activism, but in my opinion, for global sisterhood as well.
A ako je to tačno, mislim, trebalo bi više da brine nas žene nego muškarce jer kad društva skliznu nazad u autoritarizam, nacionalizam ili religijski fanatizam, žene imaju mnogo više da izgube. Zbog toga bi ovo trebalo da je ključni momenat, ne samo za globalni aktivizam, već, prema mom mišljenju, i za globalno sestrinstvo takođe.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
But I want to make a little confession before I go any further. Until recently, whenever I took part in an international conference or festival, I would be usually one of the more depressed speakers.
Ali želim sitnicu da vam priznam pre nego što nastavim dalje. Do nedavno, kad god bih uzela učešće na međunarodnoj konferenciji ili festivalu, obično bih bila jedan od depresivnijih govornika.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
Having seen how our dreams of democracy and how our dreams of coexistence were crushed in Turkey, both gradually but also with a bewildering speed, over the years I've felt quite demoralized. And at these festivals there would be some other gloomy writers, and they would come from places such as Egypt, Nigeria, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Philippines, China, Venezuela, Russia. And we would smile at each other in sympathy, this camaraderie of the doomed.
Svedočeći kako naši snovi o demokratiji i kako naši snovi o saživotu bivaju uništeni u Turskoj, ujedno postepeno, ali i mahnitom brzinom, tokom godina sam se osećala prilično demoralisanom. A na ovim festivalima su prisustvovali i drugi pokunjeni pisci, a dolazili su sa mesta, poput Egipta, Nigerije, Pakistana, Bangladeša, Filipina, Kine, Venecuele, Rusije. I smešili bi se saosećajno jedni drugima, ova družina prokletih.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
And you could call us WADWIC: Worried and Depressed Writers International Club.
A možete da nas zovete MKZDP: Međunarodni klub zabrinutih i depresivnih pisaca.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
But then things began to change, and suddenly our club became more popular, and we started to have new members. I remember --
No onda su stvari počele da se menjaju i iznenada je naš klub postajao popularniji, i počeli smo da dobijamo nove članove. Sećam se -
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
I remember Greek writers and poets joined first, came on board. And then writers from Hungary and Poland, and then, interestingly, writers from Austria, the Netherlands, France, and then writers from the UK, where I live and where I call my home, and then writers from the USA. Suddenly, there were more of us feeling worried about the fate of our nations and the future of the world. And maybe there were more of us now feeling like strangers in our own motherlands.
sećam se da su se Grčki pisci i pesnici prvi pridružili, ukrcali su se. A potom pisci iz Mađarske i Poljske, a potom, zanimljivo, pisci iz Austrije, Holandije, Francuske, a potom pisci iz Ujedinjenog Kraljevstva, gde sam živim i nazivam to svojim domom, a potom pisci iz SAD-a. Iznenada nas je bilo više koji smo zabrinuti zbog sudbine naših nacija i budućnosti sveta. A možda nas sada ima još više koji se osećamo kao stranci u našim sopstvenim domovinama.
And then this bizarre thing happened. Those of us who used to be very depressed for a long time, we started to feel less depressed, whereas the newcomers, they were so not used to feeling this way that they were now even more depressed.
A onda se desilo nešto bizarno. Oni među nama koji su nekad bili već dugo vremena veoma depresivni, počeli smo da se osećamo manje depresivnim, dok su nove pridošlice, toliko nisu bili naviknuti na ovo osećanje da su sad bili još depresivniji.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
So you could see writers from Bangladesh or Turkey or Egypt trying to console their colleagues from Brexit Britain or from post-election USA.
Pa ste mogli da vidite pisce iz Bangladeša ili Turske ili Egipta kako pokušavaju da uteše kolege iz bregzitske Britanije ili iz postizbornih SAD.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
But joking aside, I think our world is full of unprecedented challenges, and this comes with an emotional backlash, because in the face of high-speed change, many people wish to slow down, and when there's too much unfamiliarity, people long for the familiar. And when things get too confusing, many people crave simplicity. This is a very dangerous crossroads, because it's exactly where the demagogue enters into the picture.
No, šalu na stranu, mislim da je naš svet pun jedinstvenih izazova, a njih prate nagle emotivne reakcije jer suočeni sa vrtoglavo brzim promenama, mnogi ljudi žele da uspore, a kada je previše nepoznanica, ljudi žude za poznatim. A kad stvari postanu suviše zbunjujuće, mnogi ljudi čeznu za jednostavnošću. Ovo je veoma opasna raskrsnica jer tačno tu demagozi ulaze na scenu.
The demagogue understands how collective sentiments work and how he -- it's usually a he -- can benefit from them. He tells us that we all belong in our tribes, and he tells us that we will be safer if we are surrounded by sameness. Demagogues come in all sizes and in all shapes. This could be the eccentric leader of a marginal political party somewhere in Europe, or an Islamist extremist imam preaching dogma and hatred, or it could be a white supremacist Nazi-admiring orator somewhere else. All these figures, at first glance -- they seem disconnected. But I think they feed each other, and they need each other.
Demagozi razumeju kako funkcionišu kolektivna osećanja i kako on - obično je on - može da se okoristi njima. Kaže nam da svi mi pripadamo našem plemenu, i kaže nam da ćemo biti bezbedniji, ako se okružimo jednolikošću. Demagozi dolaze u svim veličinama i oblicima. To bi mogao da bude ekscentrični vođa marginalizovane političke partije negde u Evropi ili ekstremno islamistički imam koji propoveda dogme i mržnju ili bi mogao da bude beli govornik, supremacista, ljubitelj nacista od drugde. Sve te pojave, na prvi pogled - deluju nepovezano. Ali mislim da hrane jedni druge i da su potrebni jedni drugim.
And all around the world, when we look at how demagogues talk and how they inspire movements, I think they have one unmistakable quality in common: they strongly, strongly dislike plurality. They cannot deal with multiplicity. Adorno used to say, "Intolerance of ambiguity is the sign of an authoritarian personality." But I ask myself: What if that same sign, that same intolerance of ambiguity -- what if it's the mark of our times, of the age we're living in? Because wherever I look, I see nuances withering away. On TV shows, we have one anti-something speaker situated against a pro-something speaker. Yeah? It's good ratings. It's even better if they shout at each other. Even in academia, where our intellect is supposed to be nourished, you see one atheist scholar competing with a firmly theist scholar, but it's not a real intellectual exchange, because it's a clash between two certainties.
A širom sveta, kad vidimo kako demagozi govore i kako inspirišu pokrete, mislim da imaju jednu nepogrešivo zajedničku osobinu: snažno, snažno preziru pluralizam. Ne mogu da izađu na kraj sa raznovrsnošću. Adorno je govorio: "Netolerancija prema dvosmislenosti je obeležje autoritarne ličnosti." Međutim, pitam se: šta ako je baš taj znak, baš ta netolerancija prema dvosmislenosti - šta ako je to pečat našeg vremena, vremena u kom živimo? Jer kuda god da pogledam vidim kako iznijansiranost iščezava. Na televizijskim emisijama imamo jednog protivnika nečega suprotstavljenog zagovorniku nečega. Da? Obezbeđuje dobar rejting. Čak je i bolje ako viču jedan na drugog. Čak i među akademicima, gde bi trebalo da negujemo naš intelekt, vidite ateistu učenjaka kako se nadgornjava sa verujućim učenjakom, ali ne radi se o stvarnoj intelektualnoj razmeni jer se radi o sukobu između dva ubeđenja.
I think binary oppositions are everywhere. So slowly and systematically, we are being denied the right to be complex. Istanbul, Berlin, Nice, Paris, Brussels, Dhaka, Baghdad, Barcelona: we have seen one horrible terror attack after another. And when you express your sorrow, and when you react against the cruelty, you get all kinds of reactions, messages on social media. But one of them is quite disturbing, only because it's so widespread. They say, "Why do you feel sorry for them? Why do you feel sorry for them? Why don't you feel sorry for civilians in Yemen or civilians in Syria?"
Mislim da su binarne suprotstavljenosti svuda. Te polako i sistematično nam osporavaju pravo na složenost. Istanbul, Berlin, Nica, Pariz, Brisel, Daka, Bagdad, Barselona: videli smo užasne terorističke napade jedan za drugim. A kada izrazite tugu i reagujete protiv okrutnosti, dobijete razne reakcije, poruke na društvenim mrežama. Ali jedna je naročito uznemirujuća, samo zato što je široko rasprostranjena. Kažu: "Zašto ih žališ? Zašto ih žališ? Zašto ne žališ civile u Jemenu ili civile u Siriji?"
And I think the people who write such messages do not understand that we can feel sorry for and stand in solidarity with victims of terrorism and violence in the Middle East, in Europe, in Asia, in America, wherever, everywhere, equally and simultaneously. They don't seem to understand that we don't have to pick one pain and one place over all others. But I think this is what tribalism does to us. It shrinks our minds, for sure, but it also shrinks our hearts, to such an extent that we become numb to the suffering of other people.
I mislim da ljudi koji pišu slične poruke ne razumeju da možemo da žalimo i da se solidarišemo sa žrtvama terorizma i nasilja na Bliskom istoku, u Evropi, u Aziji, u Americi, bilo gde, svuda, podjednako i istovremeno. Izgleda da ne razumeju da ne moramo da biramo jedan bol i jedno mesto naspram svih drugih. Ali mislim da nam to radi tribalizam. Skuplja naše umove, zasigurno, ali nam takođe skuplja srca do te mere da postajemo tupi na patnje drugih ljudi.
And the sad truth is, we weren't always like this. I had a children's book out in Turkey, and when the book was published, I did lots of events. I went to many primary schools, which gave me a chance to observe younger kids in Turkey. And it was always amazing to see how much empathy, imagination and chutzpah they have. These children are much more inclined to become global citizens than nationalists at that age. And it's wonderful to see, when you ask them, so many of them want to be poets and writers, and girls are just as confident as boys, if not even more.
A tužna istina je da nismo oduvek takvi. U Turskoj sam imala dečju knjigu, a kad je knjiga objavljena, išla sam na mnoge događaje. Išla sam u mnoge osnovne škole, što mi je pružilo priliku da posmatram mlađu decu u Turskoj. I uvek mi je bilo divno da gledam koliko empatije, mašte i drskosti imaju. Ova deca su daleko sklonija u tom dobu da postanu građani sveta nego nacionalisti. I čarobno je videti, kada ih upitate, toliko njih žele da budu pesnici i pisci, a devojčice su jednako samopouzdane kao dečaci, ako ne i više.
But then I would go to high schools, and everything has changed. Now nobody wants to be a writer anymore, now nobody wants to be a novelist anymore, and girls have become timid, they are cautious, guarded, reluctant to speak up in the public space, because we have taught them -- the family, the school, the society -- we have taught them to erase their individuality.
No, onda bih pošla u srednje škole i sve bi se promenilo. Sad više niko ne želi da bude pisac, sad niko više ne želi da bude romanopisac, a devojke su postale plašljive, oprezne su, imaju gard, oklevaju da govore glasno na javnom mestu jer smo ih naučili - porodica, škola, društvo - naučili smo ih da izbrišu svoju individualnost.
I think East and West, we are losing multiplicity, both within our societies and within ourselves. And coming from Turkey, I do know that the loss of diversity is a major, major loss. Today, my motherland became the world's biggest jailer for journalists, surpassing even China's sad record. And I also believe that what happened over there in Turkey can happen anywhere. It can even happen here. So just like solid countries was an illusion, singular identities is also an illusion, because we all have a multiplicity of voices inside. The Iranian, the Persian poet, Hafiz, used to say, "You carry in your soul every ingredient necessary to turn your existence into joy. All you have to do is to mix those ingredients."
Mislim da na Istoku i Zapadu gubimo raznovrsnost, i u našim društvima i u nama samima. A kako dolazim iz Turske, znam da je gubitak različitosti veliki, veliki gubitak. Danas je moja domovina postala najveći svetski tamničar za novinare, premašujući čak i tužni rekord Kine. I ja takođe smatram da ono što se desilo tamo u Turskoj, može da se desi bilo gde. Može čak i ovde da se desi. Pa, baš kao što su čvrste države bile iluzija, jedinstveni identiteti su takođe iluzija jer svi mi u nama imamo mnoštvo glasova. Iranski, persijski pesnik Hafiz je govorio: "Nosiš u svojoj duši sve potrebne sastojke da pretvoriš svoje postojanje u radost. Sve što je potrebno je da izmešaš te sastojke."
And I think mix we can. I am an Istanbulite, but I'm also attached to the Balkans, the Aegean, the Mediterranean, the Middle East, the Levant. I am a European by birth, by choice, the values that I uphold. I have become a Londoner over the years. I would like to think of myself as a global soul, as a world citizen, a nomad and an itinerant storyteller. I have multiple attachments, just like all of us do. And multiple attachments mean multiple stories.
I mislim da možemo da mešamo. Ja sam Istanbuljanka, ali sam takođe vezana za Balkan, Egejsko more, Mediteran, Bliski istok, Levant. Evropljanka sam po rođenju, po izboru, po vrednostima koje držim. Postala sam Londonka tokom godina. Volela bih da mislim o sebi kao o globalnoj duši, građanki sveta, nomatkinji i lutajućoj pripovedačici. Imam višestruke privrženosti, baš kao i svi vi. A višestruke privrženosti znače višestruke priče.
As writers, we always chase stories, of course, but I think we are also interested in silences, the things we cannot talk about, political taboos, cultural taboos. We're also interested in our own silences. I have always been very vocal about and written extensively about minority rights, women's rights, LGBT rights. But as I was thinking about this TED Talk, I realized one thing: I have never had the courage to say in a public space that I was bisexual myself, because I so feared the slander and the stigma and the ridicule and the hatred that was sure to follow. But of course, one should never, ever, remain silent for fear of complexity.
Kao pisci, uvek jurimo priče, naravno, ali takođe mislim da smo zainteresovani za tišine, za stvari o kojima ne možemo da govorimo, političke tabue, kulturološke tabue. Takođe smo zainteresovani za sopstvene tišine. Oduvek sam bila glasna i pisala sam naširoko o pravima manjina, ženskim pravima, LGBT pravima. Međutim, razmišljajući o ovom TED govoru, shvatila sam nešto: nikad nisam imala hrabrosti da na javnom mestu kažem da sam i sama biseksualka jer sam se toliko plašila klevete i ljage i ismevanja i mržnje koja bi zasigurno usledila. Ali, naravno, nikada, nikada ne treba da ćutite zbog straha od složenosti.
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And although I am no stranger to anxieties, and although I am talking here about the power of emotions -- I do know the power of emotions -- I have discovered over time that emotions are not limitless. You know? They have a limit. There comes a moment -- it's like a tipping point or a threshold -- when you get tired of feeling afraid, when you get tired of feeling anxious. And I think not only individuals, but perhaps nations, too, have their own tipping points. So even stronger than my emotions is my awareness that not only gender, not only identity, but life itself is fluid. They want to divide us into tribes, but we are connected across borders. They preach certainty, but we know that life has plenty of magic and plenty of ambiguity. And they like to incite dualities, but we are far more nuanced than that.
I iako mi nisu strani nespokoji, i iako ovde govorim o snazi osećanja - i sama znam snagu osećanja - vremenom sam otkrila da osećanja nisu neograničena. Znate? Imaju ograničenja. Dođe trenutak - nalik prelomnoj tački ili pragu - kada se umorite od osećanja straha, kada se umorite od osećanja nespokoja. I mislim da ne samo pojedinci, već možda i nacije imaju svoje prelomne tačke. Pa čak i snažnija od mojih osećanja je moja svest da nije samo rod, nije samo identitet, već je i sami život tečan. Žele da nas podele u tabore, ali povezani smo širom granica. Propovedaju izvesnost, ali mi znamo da u životu ima obilje čarolije i obilje dvosmislenosti. I vole da podstiču dualnost, ali mi smo daleko iznijansiraniji od toga.
So what can we do? I think we need to go back to the basics, back to the colors of the alphabet. The Lebanese poet Khalil Gibran used to say, "I learned silence from the talkative and tolerance from the intolerant and kindness from the unkind." I think it's a great motto for our times.
Pa, šta možemo da učinimo? Mislim da moramo da se vratimo na osnove, nazad na boje azbuke. Libanski pesnik Halil Džubran je govorio: "Naučio sam ćutnju od brbljivih i toleranciju od netolerantnih i ljubaznost od neljubaznih." Mislim da je to sjajan moto našeg vremena.
So from populist demagogues, we will learn the indispensability of democracy. And from isolationists, we will learn the need for global solidarity. And from tribalists, we will learn the beauty of cosmopolitanism and the beauty of diversity.
Dakle, od populističkih demagoga ćemo da naučimo nužnost demokratije. A od izolacionista ćemo da naučimo potrebu za globalnom solidarnošću. A od tribalista ćemo da naučimo lepotu kosmopolitizma i lepotu različitosti.
As I finish, I want to leave you with one word, or one taste. The word "yurt" in Turkish means "motherland." It means "homeland." But interestingly, the word also means "a tent used by nomadic tribes." And I like that combination, because it makes me think homelands do not need to be rooted in one place. They can be portable. We can take them with us everywhere. And I think for writers, for storytellers, at the end of the day, there is one main homeland, and it's called "Storyland." And the taste of that word is the taste of freedom.
Kako završavam, želim da vas ostavim s jednom rečju ili jednim ukusom. Reč "yurt" na turskom znači "domovina". Znači "otadžbina". No, zanimljivo, reč takođe znači "šator koji koriste nomadska plemena". I sviđa mi se taj spoj jer me navodi na razmišljanje kako domovine ne moraju da budu ukorenjene na jednom mestu. Mogu da budu prenosive. Možemo da ih nosimo svuda sa sobom. I mislim da za pisce, za pripovedače, kad se sve svede, postoji jedna glavna domovina, a ona se naziva "Zemlja priča". A ukus te reči je ukus slobode.
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
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